Spectacles
by Aira Kay
Summary: England arrives to find America asleep after a morning of meetings. Domestic fluff ensues.


With a groan, Alfred F. Jones flopped onto his sofa, burying his head in one of the decorative pillows England insisted on getting him. The day had been nothing but meetings, meetings, and – here's a shocker – more meetings. None of them were even the least bit cordial; the amount of shade being thrown ensured a headache well before lunch, and all of the arguing, snarking, and general friction meant that it didn't go away even with the strongest meds he could get over the counter. Hugging another small, squishy square, America took a deep breath. The only bright spot was the fact that it would be over soon, and England was visiting for the next nine days – official business during the week, of course, but the weekends were all theirs.

The other nation wasn't due for four more hours, though, and had insisted he could take a cab from the airport, no need for Al to go out of his way, and what if his meetings ran late, as they were wont to do? Alfred had whined out of habit, but it was a valid point, and he was glad of the time now. Every inch of him felt heavy, his very marrow exhausted. His eyelids fluttered, fighting the warm, welcoming sofa.

A quick nap… he had time for that, right?

He was asleep before he finished the thought.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland arrived at America's apartment only to be unnerved by the silence. If he wasn't playing his video games with the volume turned all the way up, Alfred was blasting his music (and, Arthur knew, lip syncing when he thought no one was watching. The lad played a mean air guitar), or just _talking_ , in his rich timbre that carried down the hall, or _laughing_ , loud and welcoming and contagious enough to induce everyone, even Germany, to join in, sometimes.

The quiet stillness, then, was not only unprecedented but also worrisome. Trying the doorknob, he found that it wasn't even locked (not that it mattered; he had his own key by this point). Nudging the door open cautiously and muttering about careless Americans, he wished he had his trusty old pistol, or even a knife, though airport security would never let either of those pass. His luggage would do, though, if he needed.

Peeking past the door, his heart jumped into his throat when he saw America face down on the sofa, sprawled with one leg and one arm hanging off onto the ground. Glancing around and seeing no sign of an intruder, England moved quickly and quietly to Alfred's side, ready to check for contusions and other signs of blunt force trauma.

Once by the other's side, though, Arthur was able to breathe out a sigh of relief. There was no hint of any injury; America's face was peaceful, if a bit wan. England knew he was busy – the curse of being a nation – but the faint black and purple smudges under America's eyes suggested he had been neglecting himself.

Speaking of eyes… England snorted. The git had forgotten to remove Texas before falling asleep, and one arm of the frames dangled against his chin, while another corner dug into his cheek. _Idiot_. They'd get broken if they stayed on Alfred's face. With a haughty sniff and some muttering about America's general intelligence, England removed the spectacles, careful not to jab America in the face and wake him. Arthur didn't really care if the frames were damaged or the glass cracked, of course; he just didn't want to listen to America's whinging if he did.

Holding the glasses up to the light, Arthur huffed. The lenses were, predictably, covered with smudges and grease and dried flakes of _something_ , though he couldn't be sure what. Probably something from one of America's godawful fast food places. "Disgusting." The layers of filth were thick and smeared – how the bloody hell did Alfred _see_ through these?

Grumbling, Arthur headed to the kitchen sink, turning the faucet to warm. Sticking the spectacles under the stream, he gently rubbed a tiny dab of hand soap onto both sides of each lens. One more rinse, and, careful to touch only the frames with his bare hands, he snagged a paper towel to dry them. Once satisfied, he held them up to the light, squinting as he checked all angles. "Much better." Not that it particularly mattered to him what condition the glasses were in.

With a huff, he closed the frames, heading back into the living room and placing them on the end table by his dead-to-the-world partner. The man had rolled onto his back in Arthur's absence, limbs still all askew. Rolling his eyes, England heaved them back onto the sofa, noting with minor amusement how Alfred's feet dangled well over the cushy arm of the couch. "You're an idiot, you know that?" he muttered softly, searching out the blanket he knew America kept in the cabinet under the television for their movie nights. "An absolute dolt. A ninny." Shaking out the coverlet, he tucked it around the sleeping nation, who gave a tiny whimper of protest at the jostling.

Given that no one could see him, Arthur didn't bother to suppress the barest hint of a smile as he brushed blond strands back from America's forehead, fingers lightly trailing across the smooth skin before dropping a kiss on its surface. "Absolutely impossible."

Alfred didn't stir further, so Arthur decided to stow his suitcase in the other's room and settle in with his embroidery. But… he ran a finger along his idiot's cheek. Alfred looked so _young_ , without the glasses settled across his nose. How did that even happen? Did glasses just add years?

Glancing to the frames and back to his sleeping boyfriend to ensure he was still slumbering like a baby, England picked up the glasses again.

Placing them on his face he took in his reflection from the screen of Alfred's unnecessarily large television. How interesting. They did make him look older, though not necessarily _old_. Sophisticated. England smiled smugly.

"…dude, are you wearing Texas?"

England whirled around at the sleep-thickened words, hastily pulling the glasses in question off his face. "What? No!"

A slow, sweet grin spread across Alfred's like syrup as he blinked blue eyes at Arthur. "You totally were."

"I said I was _not_."

"You're still holding them," Alfred pointed out, rubbing a hand up his face.

"What, no I'm – oh, bollocks." In his hurry, he'd put his fingers right on the freshly cleared lenses. "I – that is –"

"It's okay, dude." Alfred sat up and yawned, ending it in another smile that made Arthur's cheeks heat in a way that could only mean he was _blushing_ , dammit. He turned his head away with a huff, only to whip it back around with wide eyes when America continued, "You look cute in them.

"Wha – I – eh – we –" England spluttered, finally coming up with, "I'm the United Bloody Kingdom, the once British Empire, I'm not _cute_."

Alfred yawned again. "Yeah you are."

"Well – you shouldn't be falling asleep with your glasses on, you dolt! And while you're at it, maybe you can finally find a use for that soap you keep by the sink; your spectacles were absolutely _filthy_ –"

America didn't seem phased by the scolding, standing and stretching up as high as he could, effectively derailing Arthur's train of thought as he noted the way Alfred's shirt rode up. It only took a few steps for America to close the distance between them, taking Texas back. I'll clean them later. Right now, I'd really love to hug you?" Blue eyes widened like a puppy begging for a treat.

"Tch." England looked away. "I suppose I can indulge you."

"'I suppose,'" Alfred mimicked. "Geeze, do I feel honored." But his arms already encircled Arthur, tucking his head by the other's ear.

"You bloody well should," Arthur grumbled out of habit, though his voice softened as he continued. "Rough day?" Alfred groaned and attempted to burrow his face into Arthur's shoulder. "Takeaway for supper, then, as I assume you've neglected real food?"

"I had a donut and iced coffee from Dunks around three!" Alfred whined weakly, letting England maneuver him back onto the couch. Though he dropped back to the cushions, he refused to release his partner, shifting his arms to around England's waist.

"That's what I said, love. You need to eat something substantial. I'll even let you order from that little pizza place on the corner, though they're a tad too greasy for my tastes." Fingers stroked golden blond hair absently, feeling the vibrations as Alfred chuckled faintly.

"Thin crust? Half –"

"– pepperoni and sausage, half mushroom, extra cheese on all of it?"

Mm… sounds just right… But first…" America tugged England down, until they were both splayed across the furniture. "Just a few more minutes?"

The longer they stayed like this, the less likely they were to get up easily, but… "I suppose a little longer won't hurt?"

America's enthusiastic reply was punctuated by a yawn and shifting limbs as he wrapped himself around Arthur like an octopus with a teddy bear. "'nd I'm getting' you glasses, not prescription or nothin', just 'cause." Another yawn. "You're so cute in 'em. And out of 'em too. You're just cute." A third yawn cut off the mumbling.

Arthur huffed a laugh. "You're an idiot."

"Mm…" The lad was already halfway to dreamland, heading second star to the right and straight on til morning. At this angle, England could see Texas dropped on an end table, light reflecting off the lenses, except the one obvious fingerprint – he really should clean them again. But – England couldn't help a half smile as America snuggled closer, light snores escaping his lips. His own eyelids were starting to feel heavy, too, like small sandbags had attached themselves to his eyelashes, and so he closed them, throwing an arm around America's waist.

Texas could wait.

 **End.**


End file.
